


of fruits and celestial bodies

by kurapikano



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Cliche, Dark Academia, Leopika supremacy, M/M, Slow Burn, Trans Kurapika, come get yall juice, kurapika is an english major, obviously leorio is a pre-med student, pov: kurapika, symbolism bc i forget how to act, yearning but make it poetic!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:21:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26291077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurapikano/pseuds/kurapikano
Summary: In which Kurapika meets a man in a library, and his dubious amount of novels leads to a poetic yearning for him.
Relationships: Kurapika/Leorio Paladiknight
Comments: 30
Kudos: 50





	1. hands touch (almost)

**Author's Note:**

> hello leopika nation
> 
> my brain has been on the "write something soft" bullshit lately, and i desperately needed to do this?? hello thank you and enjoy
> 
> also yes this is very heavily dark academia shhhh

I suppose I have always chosen to appreciate the view of slender fingers tracing over old books stored in dark chestnut shelves, most particularly when those fingers are mine, but I did not expect that it would ever lead me to the most intriguing piece of the population I have ever had the pleasure to face.

My name is Kurapika, and I am nineteen years old. An English major and a starving artist of sorts, I spend a fair deal of my free time in the library, which seems to span forever. Of course, that hardly means that it intimidates me, because I am sure that the librarian and I are on a first name basis - she insists I call her Bernadette, but I prefer a sense of formality - and I have likely cleared more than three towering shelves ever since I found it.

I'm unsure if the appeal is the books, or if it is the cathedral ceiling. Perhaps it's the small café with the most comforting cup of chai tea one can find in a city, or the way the light of the mid evening casts a golden glow upon the already warm tones of the furniture.

Maybe it is all of it.

Or, rather, was.

I am, as of the present, a simple student laying in bed amongst hand-embroidered quilts with silken pajamas draping over my body, consumed by the sight of a man.

Sometimes, art appears as oil on canvas, or as words delicately pressed onto paper by a typewriter. Sometimes, it's glass in various colors to create a visage of something to believe in, and sometimes it is a diamond glittering amongst a ring of fine gold.

Other times, the best of times, it is in the form of another human with another burning soul, and, while that human, that man, may wear the most tragic little teashades you've ever had to lay your eyes on, he is properly beautiful, properly handsome.

Breath within something captivating is the finest form of art, if you were to ask me.

I first and only witnessed him within that subtle golden glow of a Thursday evening, after our fingers quite nearly touched as we skimmed the shelves with careful, light touches. It had seemed as if, perhaps, I would be encountering the classic cliché that envelops a fair portion of romance novels; I would accidentally meet hands with a beautiful stranger, and be instantly struck with Cupid's arrow.

I always thought that cliché was rubbish, that one look at someone could be stored in your mind forever, but I was horribly wrong. Even now, even the very next evening on a Friday, I can still conjure his face in my mind like a perfect Polaroid.

His fingers were but inches from mine, and the contrast was striking and hypnotic. He possesses such a hand that you would immediately wonder if the ones who have held it know how lucky they are. Long, thick fingers that are a warm shade of light brown - perhaps comparable to brown sugar, or the very light that was coming through the window - extend from a calloused and strong palm, with visible signs of work on them. My own hands are a cool porcelain shade, albeit not quite that pale - a gentle ivory, perhaps? My fingers are slender and spindly, and my palms are soft and cold. I wonder if his hands are warm - everything of him seems to radiate the gentle heat of a crackling fire in the hearth, from the auburn of his eyes to the way I can almost feel his aura sparkling like sunlight.

I assume he is likely warm, while I am often cold to the touch, a fine ice sculpture carved to a soft perfection.

Of course, that is only my outside. My inside blazes with a fire, and I must then wonder if a man who appears so warm might have a soothing river flowing in his soul.

He had looked at me as if he had not whatsoever acknowledged my presence before then, a few surprised blinks accentuating the slight part of his lips. I'm sure my own eyes, a hard shade of caramel, were blown somewhat wide, more doe-like than usual. Perhaps my lips even parted - I fail to remember now, but I do not fail to remember his sun-kissed face, or the freckles that dotted sparingly across the skin I could see. He feels like a clementine picking farm in the midst of early autumn, in which the juices of the citrus explode on your tongue and make you feel invigorated, yet wholly calm.

My heart skips a beat at the idea of sharing one with him.

He had apologized to me in a slight rush, as if he truly felt so embarrassed that he had to get it out before he dropped to the ground, mortified to death.

Perhaps that is why _mort_ is part of the word, because you ought to drop dead if you truly feel so horrified by your own accidents.

How harsh.

I responded with a simple dismissal, a reassurance that it was okay, and then he simply nodded gratefully, moving on to the section on medicine, which is not far from where we were standing.

If he was gazing at me like I were a precious jewel under the hand of God, I would not know, for I was too busy doing that exact thing to him. If he was, I hope he was just as distracted. If he was not, then I suppose that finds me as the mortified one.

That was the first day I left without a new book checked out, and I instead retired to my small flat that truly reflects my earlier starving artist motif, to curl in my bed with a mug of not-as-good chai tea and yearn over romance poems.

Truly, not my best moment, but I suppose that I am just a fool falling for clementines and sunshine, hoping that he may be falling for cherries and moonlight.

Silly of me, perhaps.

I will indulge in fantasy, just this once.


	2. spices and aromas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Acts of yearning truly are the most fatal thing in the world, Kurapika discovers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you thought kurapika would be 100% composed you were so wrong i am so sorry he's a gracefully falling idiot

It is Saturday morning, the sun is peeking over the horizon, and I am debating what to wear.

Nothing unusual, I suppose, except for the fact that I am dwelling far too heavily on not my own opinion of the clothing in my closet, but on what the opinion of that mysterious man pursuing medical books might be. There is not even a guarantee that he will be present within the library, nor is there a way that I can acquire such information without being..

..A stalker, really.

Even so, I am debating far too seriously over whether the cream colored blouse or the sage tinted off-the-shoulder top is better, and which would better suit the ink black pants I fully intend to pair with whatever choice.

I suppose it depends on how obvious I want to be that I am only appearing for the sake of catching another glimpse, which, really, sounds desperate, and it's my own choice not to acknowledge that it absolutely is. Of course, there is always the possibility that he also wants another glimpse of me, and..

..The possibility that I've read too many love stories this month, and am now some fluttering romantic in a Jane Austen novel running after some captivating man that happened to nearly brush my fingers on his.

That thought alone gives me butterflies, admittedly, which really supports that second theory. Embarrassment colors my cheeks a rosy pink, and, for today, I decide that I should at least _try_ and act like I'm not the one grasping for straws.

Once I've secured my binder in such a way that I will not suffer permanent spinal damage from bending over to pick something up, I carefully shrug on the cream colored blouse.

.  
.  
.

It is about eight o'clock in the morning when I arrive at the marvelous stairs of the library, the gentle swirls of black marble within the white glinting nicely in the golden beam of light that basks over it. Quietly, the several rings that adorn my fingers - for aesthetic purposes only, really - clink against the black, iron sidebars that climb along the sides. I feel almost dirty putting my shoes upon such clean stone, even though I keep them clean - who am I to risk dirtying this clean, fresh scheme?

Nevertheless, I set upon my ascent up the stairs, the rubies on the bottom of my drop earrings gently touching the skin of my neck as I look to my sides and bask in the glory of the morning.

Chilly, though, and I somewhat regret not bringing a cardigan.

Blugh.

.  
.  
.

Luckily, the inside of the building is far warmer, and the wafting scent of spice from the small café nestled adjacent from the checkout desk floods my senses. If autumn were a place, it would most certainly be here, and it takes me but a moment to glance towards the nook shrouded by pastry cases and piping hot canisters of water and coffee. The tea bags are neatly set in a row across the countertop, and, craving further comfort, it is no surprise when my feet carry me over like a siren song.

I'm greeted by a familiar woman with short-cut red hair and auburn eyes, a smile drawing a hairpin curve to her cupid's bow. I am the first to speak, bowing my head slightly in greeting.

"Good morning, Mito."

"Good morning, Kurapika," she replies with a grin, already scuffing off to start preparing my usual order.

Perhaps I ought to be concerned that I spend that much time here, but I'm not. It gives oneself a sense of community, of family; it has been years since I've had such things.

"What's on your mind? You have that look on your face, like you're preoccupied."

I snap quickly out of my train of thought, blinking in a manner that surely makes me look less than intelligent - a travesty, for me, really.

"Oh- Hm. Nothing, really, but.."

Instinctively, we both scoot closer to each other, because she knows that I will simply drop dead if anyone hears me speak from my heart. I have a reputation to upkeep, after all.

It's best referred to as "cold, dark scholar from Edwardian era London".

"There's...have you seen a very tall man around here? Spiked black hair, rather tan skin, and the most atrocious teashades I've had to lay my eyes on?"

Mito snorts, quickly moving her hand to muffle it. "Yeah- Yeah, I have. Actually, you know what? I think he tutors Gon in-"

As if on cue, a fourteen-year-old with even spikier hair comes from the storage door, eyes the same auburn wide and curious.

"Me? What about me?"

I huff a small laugh, arching a brow. "Were you eavesdropping?"

Gon stands there for a moment before looking sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ahaha...maybe a little! But I can't help it! I've been way too busy with school, and haven't seen you lately, and- Oh! Leorio!"

Mito slides my tea across the counter, shaking her head in amusement. My eyebrow stays raised, but my lips drop to a curious frown.

"..Leorio?"

Oh, the way that name rolls off the tongue...it may just be sweeter and spicier than any chai in the world, but I bring the tea to my lips anyway, taking a small sip as Gon's overly-loud voice begins again.

"Yeah! He tutors me in science right now. He goes to your university! Except he's pre-med. He wants to be a doctor. Killua fell off his skateboard trying to make a TikTok, and- Oh, the idea was super funny. He was gonna ride down a hill, and then-"

"Gon," Mito interrupts, "I think Kurapika knows by now that Killua's ideas are, uh…'super funny'."

'Super funny' means 'dangerous and unhinged'.

There is a mere beat of silence before Gon starts up again, bouncing back and forth from his heels to his toes with a beaming smile.

"Right! Okay, so, Killua fell and scraped his knee, and Leorio was there because 'we need adult supervision', and he had a first aid kit and stuff, and he patched up Killua, but Killua was doing that thing where he gets upset and acts like an angry cat 'cause he's stubborn, and-"

The rest of Gon's babbles go unheard by me, because I make the fatal mistake of turning my head when I hear the door open with a soft creaking noise, and in walks _Leorio._

A few days ago, I would have told anyone that I think those scenes in movies where the world goes silent as the protagonist stares at their heartthrob of a crush and music fades in are complete and utter garbage, and absolutely unrealistic. Now, though, I am stricken by the very sight of him, the morning light filtering in before the door closes with a tiny click. The world is mostly quiet and blocked out, and Gon's voice is a mere murmur in the back of my mind as I gaze upon the man only yards away.

His hair looks just slightly bed-headed, but it is clear he put effort into trying to tame it. His face is clean-shaven, the stubble from our last encounter gone, save for some under his sideburns that he seems to keep intact. Those teashades are off, for the time being - no need for sunglasses in here - and it exposes fully the shape of his face. It's angular and sharp, yet somehow warm, and I yearn to trace my fingers along his jaw and cheekbones, if just for a little while. All of him is strong and striking, most of all his eyes, which are dark and staring directly at me.

…

And staring directly at me.

I startle horribly, nearly tripping over my own feet as I stumble a step back, the liquid in my cup just barely hanging on for dear life as my eyes blow wide. I feel ill on the spot, my heart dropping directly to my ass, and, for the time being, my poise and essence of grace is effectively ruined by my own longing.

"..Mito?" I just barely manage, slowly moving my gaze to her.

"..Yes?"

Ah, good. She sounds as mortified for me as I feel.

"Be a dear and shoot me."


	3. residue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Running is not always a solution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we back

It seems requesting that I be immediately sent to my great reward after my great embarrassment is not something I should have said out loud, because it serves only to make the air more tense. My eyes are staring into his, and vice versa, and I very faintly notice that, in fact, a little tea did spill on my shirt.

In all my fairytale daydreaming of this man, this Leorio person, it would seem I forgot that I am, actually, not living in a fairytale, and I am a bumbling disaster in a trenchcoat.

That is to say, of course, that I like to think I hide it well, most of the time.

This is not one of those times, even though I'd really like it if it was.

He looks utterly flabbergasted, which I do not blame him for. I think I'd feel rather beside myself if some mostly-stranger was staring at me like they'd known me all their life, longing and hungry, too — even so, he really doesn't have to look at me like I need psychological evaluation.

I already know that. He isn't supposed to know that.

My mind is racing at a mile per second, and I'm entirely unable to fathom any possible next move. It's just me, my tea-stained shirt, and a dashing man in the middle of the public library, having been caught red-handed ogling him like fine art.

But how can I not, when his face is chiseled so beautifully?

His jawline is sharp and his cheekbones are prominent, as well as the long slope of his nose sharpening to an abrupt end. His eyes are dark and handsome, set back and narrow like an oddly charming chunk of mystery you'd see in movies. Even so, his looks are unbearably warm, and I almost fall feverish, though it is likely the way my cheeks are filled with carmine tint upon drinking in the sight of him again.

Goodness, he's awfully close-..

This is the moment I get to snap out of it and realize Gon has very unceremoniously shoved me towards him, and we are...a little closer than before.

Nothing quite life-ruining, or anything I'll have to hold a grudge about, but, nonetheless, closer.

He's even more alluring up close, and that is what sets off alarms in my head and sends me dashing out the door like I'm being chased by some awful villain with a chainsaw, hot tea all but splattering all over the marble stairs and my clothing.

Frankly, that is the least of my concerns, besides the fact that the liquid is scalding and probably not good for the skin.

The frigid air of November has it sticking to my skin and feeling the same way mint feels when you drink ice cold water, and my boots are crunching leaves on the sidewalk. At this point, I'm not running from anything, but running because I began to in the first place, and I'll look like a proper idiot if I dare walk back into that library like I have any dignity left. Briefly, I consider disappearing off the face of the Earth and moving to a remote island in the Pacific Ocean, but, of course, I cannot very well do that, unless I should like to drown in debt after giving all my belongings away.

That would be significantly less embarrassing than ever being seen in public again, but very inconvenient.

Tch.

It takes no time at all for me to clunk through my door, almost tripping on the threshold from how horribly disheveled today has already left me. It's not even noon, and I'm already having to brace myself on my coat hangers, just so I don't fall and break my nose like the bumbling fool I seem to be.

The worst part is that, despite my potent shame and humiliation, I'm so much more focused on the sight of him so close to me.

The door shuts with a push of my hand, and I slide down it, slumping to the floor and fully elongating my legs out with a heavy respire. I take a few moments to catch my breath, but it quickly is stolen from me again when my mind flickers back to him.

Just that small bit of extra closeness brings to life many more ideas in my head, frothing with daydreamy affection and unrealistic longings. Had we gotten closer, perhaps I could have studied his lips longer, as lovely as they look to feel. While not plump, they look soft in such a way that is intoxicating, like a poison slipping into my blood. All of him radiates warmth, and it makes me wonder if his kiss is the same, and if he likes the taste of chai. There's something especially mesmerizing about the thought of getting to dedicate his voice and touch to memory, and I ache to know how his calloused hands would feel on my skin, how his labrum would feel pressed against my cheek, flushed red.

My heart races, and it's undeniable that I am stupidly and abashedly in love with this man, even if it is just base attraction for now. His soul is decadent, and he is properly handsome, and there's nothing yet that I haven't seen to be perfect.

And I ran away after being caught staring like a fool.

My hands slap to my face as I groan, brows furrowed.

I'm going to have to sleep this off.

•  
•  
•

Falling asleep proves torturous, mind fluttering about with thoughts of how I should like to be in his warm embrace and fall asleep there, but, eventually, I manage, and wake up in the late hours of the evening, the sun already gone from the sky and the feeling in the air effervescent.

I rub at my eye, wrinkling my nose as I strip, finally, of my stained blouse, afflicted skin left sticky. All that leaves is a tank top and my binder, which I wasn't in my right mind enough to remove before slumber. I'm not yet sore, though, so I suppose it's fine.

I swap out the uncomfortable pants for baggy shorts, and feel a bit better reveling in comfort.

As is routine, I grasp at my nightstand for my phone, and turn it on, the brightness making me shut my eyes and wince. Slowly, surely, I crack them open again, focusing and adjusting after a few long moments.

The first notification is a missed call from Mito, and a voicemail left from her. She's likely worried I've finally lost it and become a hermit for good, so, I click the voicemail, and hit play after confirming my existence as the phone's owner.

My heart drops to the bottom of my stomach.

It's absolutely not Mito's voice.


End file.
